Elegy for Poetry
all the trees have been written to a sort of permanence—
reds, yellows, umbers, evergreens hanging out in a book
dusty on its shelf. someone wrote about the political climate,
an ugly insect. the word ‘God’ has appeared in rhymes
so often I must sleep with my eyes open out of fear
a stray line finds me guilty. what’s left to say that hasn’t been
tucked neatly into the folds of a villanelle?
not that we can’t welcome beauty—it’s everywhere.
not that we shouldn’t lament—psyche lies exposed
like a crinkled centerfold. there remain injustices to bemoan
(been done), discoveries that wow & awe
(all words as one, all words our own), a next first love &
loss to praise & mourn (again, again), yet the pen
is never mightier than the silencer. it leaves smudges
on a page—we call that art. ink stains our thumbs.
we think it emotion after the casket has closed.
